Wichita eagle., 1887-10-01
cHlLrReN,s POETS
"And /, for one, would much rather.
Could merit 50 sweet q thing
Be the poet of little children
Than the laureate Of king"
THE OLD MILL.

THE OLD MILL.
The old mill still goes round; hear and
see it now, with the burr OF its grindstones
and the clatter of its wheels; the old roof
sinking beneath the weight of its thatch; its
black walls sustained know not how upon
worm eaten beams and crumbling stones.
Yes. it still goes round in the midst OF its
meadow and its group OF willows, from
which escape all the murmuring and singing
noises of the mill dam, the chickens and the
birds. hidden in the bushes But it does no
| work, it grinds no grain, and the manufac-
tory has taken its place in the landscape
which once it enliyened so beautifully and
gavly. The lord and master of this mill, a
certain Francois Estanoche, died last winter
Of a heavy cold, and died with conscience
burdened by grievous sin, as you viii learn
from this true recital.
Three wears ago all Paris was talking Of
Young Raymond de B, the hero OF very
| touching adventure which had given him
great notoriety, as he had saved the life OF
| the most celebrated woman in Paris Alasl
| how quickly was the distance leaped between
| this noble and brilliant debut and the sad
| and vulgar episode which terminated the
career OF this unfortunate young man.
One day, after five or six years OF life OF
pleasure, light loves and feverish passion-to
the youth of France the charm of Paris
| RAYMOND was seized with longing for his
mother and his home Twenty-four hours
later he saluted through the riffs in a curtain
| of poplars the village in which he had passed
his infancy, group of black houses upon
| background of green, then pile Of yellow
and crumbling stones that had once been the
| feudal chateau of his fathers, and beside 1t,
under the shadow of the trees, heavy mod
| ern dwelling in which lived his beloved
| mother.
The first days of spring had surrounded
| this humble city of the province with the
magnificent verdure and profusion of flowers
which April spreads with such generous hands
over this land of the mistral and the sun.
| Blossoning almond trees turned the hills into
pyramids of pink and white and the valleys
| into sheets of lace, and there foated between
earth and sky golden dust like amber. 1t
was good simply to exist, and Raymond, in
| toxicated with the sweetness of life and ma
ture, felt himself filed with a crowd Of emo
| tons hitherto unknown to him.
| Moreover, be would soon be with his moth
| er. and she it was who had subtly infused into
| him the desire to quit Paris, for though she
had said nothing about it as yet, it was new
| ertheless arranged that he should wed-a
marriage as it should be in all respects-witb
| Mile de Verrier, one OF the most beautiful
and Iovable of girls and the playmate of his
childhood Here. where his mother was so
good and the skies so blue, his soul expanded
| like flower in the sun, but, alas! these beau
tiful ideas, noble projects and happy dreams
were not destined TO come to maturity.
| One evening Raymond, while going up the
steep and unpaved street which led from the
| village to the old house under the shadow Of
| the trees, perceived before him, charming
and rosy under her bonnet of white calico, a
slender, alert and graceful little figure which
barred his passage. Great dark eyes flashed
like flame under the edge of her head dress,
and the color of the rose shone through the
| whitenesS of her cheeks, color which the
women Of the south preserve even unto this
day This beautiful woman was known in
| the village as "Tregour's Denise" but re-
called herself to NJ. Raymond as the daughter
| of one of his fathers former tenants He re-
membered her well, and the picture she had
made wandering over the hills with her focks
| of goats and turkeys Her love for flowers
had been passion with her, and many 6
time he had met her upon the cliffs of
Trevaresse in rags and tatters, but always
wearing pinned upon the bosom of her gown
bunch of wild flowers exqusitely arranged.
That little one OF Tregoul's," said the
| village crones, would have made her for
| tune in florists shop
| For several years past This charming peas
ant, intelligent amiable and good, had been
/ l.
a miller he was-so coarse, so brutal, so dis
agreeable, to inhabit this delicious valley;
| and what contrast to the tender traditions
of the legendary miller of the opera comique.
Fstanoche was taciturn, ugly and jealous; an
| industrious worker, but i'll tempered Ray
| mond alone, who had fallen into the habit of
| coming every evening to pass an hour at the
mill, seemed TO have power to soften this
sullen humor. There, seated upon a straw
chair, all dusty with flour, he would join the
miller in bottle of home made wine while
they talked of various things, for our dainty
| Partisan took the greatest pleasure in ming
| ling with the rural world, and only laughed
| good humoredly when inadvertently rubbed
| by sack of wheat or rye. He loved the
| fresh odor of the newly ground grain always
| floating in clouds through the mill, and the
miller, who had once been soldier;and served
his time in the garrison at Paris, liked moth
| ing SO well as to talk of the capital and the
| deeds he had there performed.
| Raymond listened very patiently, though
sometimes strongly tempted to laugh, for
| the miller spoke the most abominable French
| and remained an incorrigible provincial
| Four months had run by since Raymond
| left Paris, but neither the efforts nor the
1 L. i
him accept the marriage that she had planned
for him. lie was willing enough TO identify
himself for time with this rustic place,
which refreshed and strengthened his tired
| energies, even 10 mingle in the daily life OF
the peasants who surrounded him; but to
him il was only season in the fields;;r when
autumn came it would find him Ell route for
| Paris.
| An inveteiate hunter, he came and went
across the sunny valleys, waiting for the
| leaves to gather under the hedges and the
| pine trees nov browning under an ardent
sun Seated in the tufts of thyme and Law
| ender, bis gum between his knees and his dogs
beside him, he dreamed of Paris. always of
| Paris, where 50 many tender memories drew
| him.
| Soon a Very commonplace incident oc-
| CURED. Raymond had become very atten-
| to Denise and Denise loved RAYMOND.
Estanoche was not long ignorant of the turn
| things had taken. In great cities the hus-
| band IS the last to hear or such a thing. but
| In village, where vice is badly concealed II
| is different Did he suffer! His heart at this
| revelation was it torn like the beach of a
| tempestuous nigh:l The character of Is
tancche, if you will remember, was very
/ Co.. Il